


When Hell Freezes Over

by thebrotherswholoved



Category: SCP Foundation
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic, Frozen Amniotic Fluid, Gearsberg, I am Not a Part of This Fandom This Was a Gift, Icegears, M/M, Mpreg, Mpreg!Iceberg, No Angst, Not Canon Compliant, SCP, Way Too Descriptive, i am ashamed, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrotherswholoved/pseuds/thebrotherswholoved
Summary: When would a sub-zero-skinned anomalous paperwork-jockey and his automaton partner ever decide to throw caution to the wind and embrace the chance to expand their family?When hell freezes over...or, at least that's what both men assumed.
Relationships: Dr. Gears/Dr. Iceberg (SCP Foundation)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	When Hell Freezes Over

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my BFFL, whose nagging and veiled threats eventually resulted in this (oneshot) fanfiction fiasco.

The bedside digital clock reads 05:30 on its neon blue display face when the alarm first starts blaring its song. There’s a subdued and clearly delirious groan followed two seconds short of immediately by a piteously calloused hand slamming down upon the faded SNOOZE decal (which has clearly endured such fury from its keeper before), causing the abrasive cockcrow music to cease. Once silence fills the room again, the body attached to the hand atop the clock rolls over with a heaving sigh as both of the two cloaked forms resting beneath the wolf gray comforter on the $129.99-on-clearance-at-MattressFirm full-size mattress relish in just five more minutes of quietude. Just five more minutes of peace before the day begins and schedules triumph over the rigidity of life.

The (clearly) older of the two decides to bite the bullet after just three minutes of toxic anticipation and sit up, making his second priority turning off the damned alarm clock before it could annoy him once more; his first priority is making sure he doesn’t wake the other person beside him. The brunet’s hair is poking out in every direction and his droopy eyelids crease with with his forehead as he squints at the time which he neglected to read first things first; there’s a notable absence of crows feet, smile wrinkles, and lip lines despite the wrinkles on his forehead becoming more and more prominent by the day, though Gears doesn’t notice it much. How could he have received these trophies of aging when his life has been spent under the spell of his inability to laugh, smile, frown, gawk, grimace, or seethe? Once he’s somewhat lucid, the graying doctor rubs his russet brown eyes, reaches for his eyeglasses Velma Dinkley-style, dons them, and turns his head to check on his bed buddy.

Obviously younger, Iceberg’s cowslick is making a tuft of his platinum-gray hair stick up like a dagger and he tugs on the comforter with a soft grunt to further cocoon himself in his nest of blankets (no wonder Gears was freezing his ass off in early March) in what seems to be a futile attempt to stay warm even though every inch of his skin being 19.4ºF year-round due to his anomalous physical properties. There appears to be a frozen trail of saliva coating his chin from his somnolent drooling but like all things Iceberg, Gears just finds it adorable.

Dr. Gears—first name Charles, as it were—moves so his legs are hanging over the side of their bed and slides his feet into his slippers before standing up, cracking his back, and making his way to the bathroom. After a quick examination of his hair and a consideration of what in god's name he’s going to do to tame it, he steps into the running shower once he’s fairly sure that the water is running at around 96ºF. It’s an insane effort to avoid getting sidetracked by re-re-reading the shampoo bottles in the shower but somehow he manages long enough to achieve mediocre cleanliness; Gears then shrugs a towel around his shoulders and another around his waist, places a paper towel in the sink, and shaves the stubbly hairs coating his cheeks that he was too lazy to groom yesterday. A few more minutes pass by before the middle-aged doctor is clothed in his white button-down, desaturated blue cardigan vest, gray blazer, dress slacks, and now-worn dress shoes that Julian—Iceberg—bought him nearly four years ago now, leading him to grab his briefcase and turn on the coffee machine in the kitchen to brew some coffee for the road. This part of his routine gives him a solid eight and a half minutes to turn on the television to channel 65 (Julian’s favorite news channel of the five their cable plan boasts), throw a blanket in the dryer to be ready and warm in twenty odd minutes for his partner in crime, and start making Julian’s cinnamon oatmeal. These eight and a half minutes conclude when Charles walks back into the single bedroom of their apartment to wake the sleepy-head still rolled inside the comforter, which he does by letting his fingertips dance across the smooth yet frigid skin of his boyfriend’s exposed collarbone and up his neck until he’s gently caressing the area behind Julian’s right ear. Eventually, the thirty-two year-old whips his head back and his cornflower blue eyes pop open, his anger at the morning fading into a soft smile when he sees whose hand is resting behind his head.

“Hey, you.” Iceberg stretches his arms, his (Gears’) too-big Blue Öyster Cult t-shirt falling off his shoulder. He proceeds to lean forward and let his head knock into Gears’ chest. He’s not trying to nudge his partner into giving him affection...that’s just nuts…

Gears slides his hand up Iceberg’s side, having grown used to and actually comforted by the coldness of the younger man’s skin. He pauses before pressing a kiss to the crown of his head and enveloping him in a silent embrace. “Hey, you,” he echoes. A moment passes until he speaks again. “Time to get up, we can drive together today.”

Their routine has been a little wonky since Gears’ hours got shifted with his reception of a generous bonus and a new lab coat and so the morning commute to the Foundation has changed as well. Each day before December twenty-seventh of this last year began with the couple waking up at the same time, eating breakfast together, and downing their coffees in sync as they panicked about making it there on time; since then, however, Gears has been waking up as early as five o’clock to get to work by six thirty while Iceberg remains snugly in bed until seven o’clock, giving him two hours until having to arrive at their shared workplace by nine o’clock to work his typical 9-to-5 job since he flat-out refused to wake up at the crack of dawn with his overachieving boyfriend just to get to the Foundation two and a half hours early and inevitably be subjected to doing more goddamn paperwork. Days like this first Wednesday in March are rare because researchers seldom get let off the hook for coming in late—Gears is, as said by Julian, “irreplaceable” though and has done the math to determine that he can come in an hour late four times a month if he comes in roughly fifteen minutes early every other workday of each month: a small price to pay, if you ask him. 

“Nah.” Julian cracks his neck while grimacing at the light shining through the drapes over the west window. He clams up suddenly, however, and scrambles to bite his tongue before it runs off without him. “I saw that massive stack of files on your desk, and I kinda wanna sleep for a bit more. I’m not feelin’ too great. Go be an overachiever, babe.”

Gears is admittedly taken aback by Iceberg’s decline of his rather familiar offer but occupies his mind with stone-faced concern. “What’s wrong? Do you want anything?”

Iceberg shakes his head before perking up as a thought comes to his mind. “A kiss.”

This makes his boyfriend smile internally and he nods, leaning down and initiating a deep, warm, comfortable kiss though his face remains emotionless. When they part, Iceberg raises his hand to Gears’ cheek and caresses his hairless jawline (though his touch is light—he doesn’t want a bit of frostnip to get the Foundation on their scent while they’re trying to be covert). “Thanks. Now, get your ass to work. I’ll see you in a few hours,” he grins.

The fifty-four year old says his goodbyes (three, to be precise, as his partner tends to be clingy when half-asleep) and gathers his things, bringing Iceberg a piping hot cup of coffee with two sugars and a shit load of Half-and-Half to stall just a bit longer before departing at last. Just fifteen minutes after Gears leaves, Julian rolls out of bed to find the lukewarm cup of coffee on his bedside table. With a strange expression, he walks into the bathroom and dumps the drink down the drain.

* * *

Gears walks into his office at the Foundation at half past six and shrugs his overcoat off his shoulders with a surprising alacrity—damnit, who the hell messed with his thermostat again? Regardless of his off-putting behavior this morning, Iceberg did have a point: six manilla folders are stacked on his desk in front of his desktop monitor, each a quarter as thick as SCP-682’s file, which holds an almost he-who-shall-not-be-named status in his department. He spends the next three and a half hours pounding through every single poorly-typed description and mock procedure until his brain is practically mush; his stone-faced delirium prompts him to glance at the wall clock and read the time: 09:30. Where the hell is Iceberg?

Charles picks up the office phone and dials Iceberg’s extension only to get no answer. He contemplates pulling out his cellphone to ask him where he is but decides against it since he doesn’t want to alarm the poor man. A bit perturbed, Gears continues working until a faint knocking can be heard at his office door. It’s too meek to be Iceberg, too soft to be any of his team members, but just frightened enough to be one of the interns. Oh, fuck his life.

Since the first of January, the Foundation has started a new training program aimed at assimilating future clerical workers into the workplace environment...and since the first of January, these “interns” have done more harm than good. From accidentally shredding a six page handwritten report of a containment breach penned ten years ago by a since-departed researcher to brewing the most bitter coffee known to man, the unpaid badge-wearers are menaces in the eyes of everyone. Gears himself cannot see any possible benefits on behalf of the youngsters or the actual paid staff, but that’s not his department. 

The intern standing outside his door is five-foot-seven and roughly 180 pounds with blindingly bright orange hair and glasses thicker than the steel walls of containment units, and the poor kid is practically vibrating with fear when Gears’ booming voice permits him entry. He stumbles through the doorway and offers the doctor a terrified smile before remembering that the apparent scowl on his face is not intended.

“Dr. Gears,” the twenty-something year old starts, earning him a nod that makes him sweat. “I, uh...I have a memo. Your assistant called in sick about fifteen minutes ago, Dr. Iceberg?”

Gears feels his stomach clench like something is amiss but dismisses the feeling as he takes the yellow square of paper from the intern’s hands. Sure as shit, the note details how Iceberg called in sick at 09:16:42 on 03/03, citing a “head cold” and “apparent laryngitis.” This makes Gears squint, though he drops it a few seconds later. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, setting the paper slip down on his desk. 

The intern all but scurries away, closing the door behind him and leaving Gears to sit down and prop his head up on the ball of his hand as he wonders why Iceberg would lie about being sick and, most importantly, not tell him about it. He wants to break the rules and go home and either nurse Iceberg back to health if he’s truly ill or play hooky with him if he’s not. Suddenly, having a day job is a curse, especially when his day job has no idea what two of its employees get up to once they clock out.

Gears starts getting antsy about three o’clock as his mind is overrun by thoughts of Iceberg home alone and sicker than a dog. With his brain so cloudy and preoccupied, he has nearly exited four tabs without saving, spilled hot coffee on the back of his left hand, called Dr Kondraki “Blake” instead of Ben, and contemplated jumping out the window thrice, just to feel something other than this anticipation-slash-anxiety that’s making his foot tap against the floor. Six o’clock is going to be a bitch to wait for, he surmises, but at least he’ll be holed up in his office with minimal tangible distractions from his work. Maybe he’s overreacting while underreacting again. Maybe it was just the oatmeal that made Iceberg sick, or maybe he just wanted to stay in bed so badly that he used one of his sick days. Maybe.

* * *

The fact that Gears makes it out of the doors of the Foundation workplace on time is a miracle in and of itself, not to mention that he appeared to be preparing for a sprint by the looks of how he was waiting by his cracked open door for six o’clock to strike while keeping his eyes locked on his watch when he’s usually kept at least five minutes late by some “pressing matter.” He drives at a speed barely considered legal in these parts and plays Iceberg’s music playlist while he drives through a fastfood place to get his boyfriend his favorite waffle french fries and nachos, speeding off just as quickly as when he left work to get home before the sun sets anymore.

Gears fumbles with his keys outside the front door of his and Iceberg’s shared apartment (because they’re “roommates,” the “with benefits” sold separately) until the younger man himself opens the door just as Gears got to the second to last of his keys, a clearly fake smile tugging at his lips. He has the blanket that Gears chucked in the clothes dryer this morning draper around his shoulders and a different set of loungewear is draped atop his slender frame. Even though he looks exhausted, Gears notes the appearance of residual frozen tear tracks that he had likely rushed to scrub off before anyone saw, which just causes his anxiety to spike yet again. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I look like shit,” Julian laughs in a hoarse, post-meltdown voice. He steps aside so Gears can walk inside the apartment before closing the door behind him. 

The first thing the older of the two does when he gets inside is pull Iceberg into a hug contrary to his typically-robotic behavior and, once he lets go of his partner, he steps back and gives him a full-blown ocular patdown—face, body, extremities, hair, outfit, demeanor, everything he can think of as he tries to determine the cause of Iceberg’s absence at work. He’s distracted by a piece of paper on the kitchen counter, a receipt from Employee Health as he reads from the letterhead. Though his exterior does not express it, Gears is squinting incredulously at the piece of paper as though he’s trying to set it on fire pyrokinetically. Of course, his eyes would bulge out as he sees the prices listed as the list of actions taken by the clinic descend: $50 for the initial appointment fee, $20 for labs, and $30 for “miscellaneous imaging” ( _whatever the hell that means,_ he thinks) for a grand total of one hundred dollars...until Julian’s insurance knocks off $75 of that cost, thankfully. Right now, he can’t really complain about the Foundation’s lack of dental insurance. 

He sets it down on the counter where it laid before and turns to Iceberg with the same blank stare that no matter how many times he’s analyzed it, the younger man can never truly decipher. “What’s this about?”

Julian averts his gaze from his boyfriend's which seems to be giving him the third degree before he even begins prodding. “I—”

“No, actually, scratch that. Why the hell didn’t you tell me about whatever this is?” Gears cuts him off rather rudely, pulling his cardigan sweater vest down to cover his belt. 

“You’re joking, right?” Iceberg’s eyes seem to ignite with a subdued ire. “I don’t have to tell you everything, Charlie. I just had to run an errand, I’ve been putting it off for two weeks now.”

“God, you know I hate that nickname,” Charles says in his signature dull, monotonous voice, making his partner shrug. If he could roll his eyes right now, he’d be unleashing a typhoon of passive-aggressive snark on this man. “Come on, hon. You know I’m just asking to make sure you’re okay. Don’t do this.”

Gears’ response is, in actuality, not meant to be snide. Iceberg has been particularly distant these past few weeks, more so than usual. Sure, the man has his moments and gets a bit snappy every once in awhile, but this is getting ridiculous. How can they even sleep in the same room when one doesn’t trust the other enough to talk about a legitimate potential concern?

Julian tugs the blanket around his shoulders as though he’s trying to use it as an invisibility cloak to disappear, get his ducks in a row and come up with a half-decent alibi to get Gears off his back. “Don’t you think I know that? It’s not like I _wanted_ to lie to you, I just...I—”

“You _had_ to? Don’t give me that shit, Jules,” Gears shakes his head and picks up the receipt once more. “I was fucking scared all day, I was this close to defenestrating myself and making a run for it to get home to you”—he pinches his thumb and forefinger together so they’re almost touching for dramatic effect—“and you won’t even tell me why an _intern_ had to tell me that my boyfriend was sick?”

Anyone with half a brain could see that Gears is angry even though he’s unable to show it, and Julian is not exempt; he shrinks into the blanket, shoulders folding inward like a child who has just been scolded, and cracks a smile. “You really do fucking hate those interns,” he manages a laugh. There’s a pause during which Iceberg swears that the air becomes hazy, like when the windows in a car are rolled up and the air isn’t circulating. “If you just...if you just knew, you’d know why I had to do this by myself before I said anything.”

“Then tell me.” Gears steps forward, his stance timid as though he’s approaching a feral cat. “What’s going on with you?”

Iceberg bites his lip and hooks his thumbs in the front pockets of his—Gears’—sweatpants. He’s not worried about telling Gears, per se; how could he be worried when he knows he won’t get an angry response (at least not a visible one)? The thing he’s most worried about is stumbling over his words and saying the wrong thing in the wrong way at the wrong time. There are a million and a half ways to phrase the two words he needs to get out in the open and he can’t seem to think of any acceptable ones. But in the end, he knows that words will always fail him in one way or another—so he resorts to show ‘n tell.

With trembling hands, Julian digs into his pocket and fishes for an unsealed, unaddressed baronial envelope which he opens to retrieve two of the three documents enclosed in the envelope. He decides to give Gears these papers one at a time, starting with the only one that’s not a dead giveaway. When Gears takes the pieces of tri-folded paper in his hands, he skims the prescription note for preplus, some kind of multivitamin-plus-iron supplement that he’s been ordered to take twice daily. 

“I’m not a pharmacist, Jules,” Gears clicks his tongue as he tries to sift through the pittance of information given to him in such a small document. He looks up at him and blinks. “Are you anemic? That’s rich.” By his tone, Iceberg can tell that he would be laughing or at least smiling if he could.

“They said they’re gonna treat me like I am,” Iceberg shrugs. He then hands over the second document without thinking too much about it; he instead braces himself for impact.

Gears is getting tired of the puzzles Julian is putting before him but he’s trying to be delicate, so he just lays down and takes it. It doesn’t take long for him to determine that this paper is a list of tests performed at Julian’s visit and their respective results, though he suspects that the man put way too much faith in him in this regard—he may have a doctoral degree, but he’s far from a medical doctor. Protein, average; glucose, borderline low (shocker); white blood cell count, 4,700 (whatever the hell that means); vitamin D, deficiency possible; iron deficiency anemia, positive (double shocker); hepB, negative; syphilis, negative; gonorrhea, negative; chlamydia, negative; HIV, negative; gestational diabetes, negative; EDD, 09/19. Those last two entries catch Gears’ attention because he’s never really seen them before—the extent of his medical knowledge comes from his work at the Foundation and the word “gestational” before the diabetes is not something he’s come across in his time. 

He looks up at Iceberg and if it could, his expression would reflect his exasperation. “C’mon, you know I don’t know what any of this means. What’s an...EDD?” Gears asks while squinting at the tiny words on the paper.

Julian stalls for a second. Jesus Christ, he’s going insane: his skin itches like mad and if he wasn’t a freak of nature, he’s sure that he’d be sweating up a storm. At long last, he bites the bullet and blurts in a crackling voice what he has had on his chest since the middle of February...sort of. “Estimated date of delivery,” he says too loudly for their small apartment. Iceberg inhales and tries again. “EDD. It’s estimated date of delivery.”

Before his boyfriend can unleash another round of questions upon him, Iceberg shoves the envelope into his hands and takes four steps back. Gears is still trying to process what exactly is being delivered when he gets a third parcel slid into his hands by his partner who looks like he wants to cry but doesn’t want to seem weak or have to deal with scraping teardrop fractals off his cheeks post-cry. With a cloudy head, he opens the envelope and feels around for whatever could be left inside until his fingertips brush over a glossy piece of what seems to be photo paper, which he retrieves and examines upon shoving his glasses higher up on his nose. There are several lines of numbers followed by Julian’s name that he doesn’t feel like decoding at the moment. Since it’s in black and white, he assumes that this documents the “miscellaneous imaging” he underwent but otherwise, he’s in the dark on all fronts.

There’s some suspicion creeping up inside him given the two pieces of information he has been given to piece together and as one starts to click, so does the other. The void pinto bean-shaped figure is surrounded by a fuzzy display of whites and grays, as is the blob near the bottom right of the oblong shape; this triggers a distant memory that he can’t quite place and he somehow manages to stay upright as he realizes that he’s looking at an ultrasound, and that the blob has a darker spot near its center of mass: a heartbeat—the beats per minute are listed down below the image frame. 

His thoughts are blurry after his comprehension of the context of this image but he has so many questions that he’s drowning in them upstairs. “Are you pregnant?” The first question to escape his mouth resounds with more gravity than he would have liked, but it's not like Iceberg isn’t used to his lack of emotional capabilities.

The younger man winces at Gears’ tone and he can’t summon the courage to utter an affirmation, so he just nods. The true shock hasn’t punched Gears in the gut just yet and so he continues his barrage of questions for his boyfriend who, if he’s being honest, just wants to sit down and watch _Hoarding: Buried Alive_. 

“Is it alive?” Strike two for appropriate tone, though Gears knows that his question is warranted. Iceberg isn’t exactly an easy case to sift through in his own right, and throwing a fetus into the crucible would prove to be a difficult time for any medical professional. Asking if the embryonic being using his lover as a host is the gentlest he could’ve put it in his mind. 

“Why would I even tell you this if it wasn’t?” Julian bites his tongue after speaking. He’s not even sure if Gears heard him.

Charles doesn’t look at his boyfriend, instead keeping his eyes locked on the area between the corner of the print and his shadow on the living room floor. “Do you want it?” Once again, his questions aren’t the easiest to ask or to answer but they’re entirely necessary, each and every one of them. 

Iceberg would answer immediately if he even knew the answer. The third doctor called in to analyze his case advised him to take time (but not too much time) and think over his decision because in the event that he doesn’t want to go through with the pregnancy, abortion would involve much, much more than a pill or pair of forceps: as the doctor put it, it would be a major surgery, probably more major than the average c-section, because of the small issue of his amniotic fluid being about two degrees above freezing. The second it would come into contact with his skin or whatever canal led to wherever this embryo resides, it’d freeze and cause complications galore for whatever OB was unlucky enough to have him under their watch. If he does decide to go through with it, to have the baby, he’d be hospitalized at thirty two weeks so that a c-section could be performed before his “water breaks”—this goes far beyond parenthood at this point: suddenly, this is a life or death situation, and all thanks to a condom breaking somehow. The question remains, however, and it won’t be going away anytime soon: will he or won’t he?

“It’s...it’s more complicated than that. I’m not exactly the same as the chick on the front of every maternity clothing magazine.” Julian twiddles his thumbs. Is he mentally flipping a coin? Maybe. Whatever the case, the dice have been rolled and he closes his eyes as he answers. “Yeah. Yes, I do.”

Gears cocks his head to the side a smidge. “You do?”

Iceberg can’t say that that question doesn’t sting just a little bit. But, he also can’t say that additional confirmation of a life-changing decision isn’t warranted, either. He nods and realizes just now that his arms somehow managed to snake around his midsection on their own accord. “Yes, Gears. I do. Do _you_?”

Gears takes a mental step back. Touché—he totally forgot that his opinion carries some weight as well. He’d also be a little pissy at Iceberg’s use of his surname if he wasn’t completely, totally preoccupied at the moment. It takes him a solid minute and seven seconds to read his own thoughts before he answers. “Yes.”

It’s obvious that Julian had been anticipating a different answer from his partner when he looks up with a shocked expression that breaks down and thaws into a small smile after a few moments. He takes a leap of faith and steps closer to Gears before dragging his index finger along the glossy paper until it lands atop a specific region of the blobby figure. “I told the ultrasound tech. that it has your nose,” he jokes.

“You didn’t say my name, did you?” Gears asks bluntly. Julian shakes his head and the tension in Gears’ shoulders melts away. “Does it even have a nose?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Iceberg laughs. “Probably not, but it made them laugh.”

Gears looks down at Iceberg and slings his arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders atop the blanket. If he could smile, he’d be beaming, no doubt. “You do that quite well, make people laugh,” he says. “Maybe...they’ll do that too.”

It’s clear to Iceberg who Gears is talking about just by how his eyes are still lingering on the ultrasound scan. He leans into his half-embrace and closes his eyes—if he tries hard enough, he swears he’s able to feel Gears’ internal excitement and sense the warmth of his mental smile...and that’s enough for him.

“Yeah,” Julian says softly. No words are really necessary for them to say everything on their minds. This...they...are enough. He feels safe and dare he say warm at this particular moment in time and if he was to choose to be anywhere else in the world, he would choose right here and right now every damn time. “Maybe.”

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely hope this goes unread for the rest of time.


End file.
